


Forbidden Fruit

by MonaLuisa



Category: Original Work
Genre: Are they considered underage???, Both Parties are underage, Dear God don’t let my friends see this, Fluff, Idk it’s 1940s Italy and they’re 16, JOURNAL ENTRY, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Orgasm Denial, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonaLuisa/pseuds/MonaLuisa
Summary: After an exhilarating but ultimately unresolved evening out with his friend Flavio, Marcello Oliveri can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to touch him.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 8





	Forbidden Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on an original work I wrote under my main pseud, MonaLuisa. It’s called From the Ashes of 1943, if anyone wants to read it. Perfectly fine if you don’t; all you need to know for this story is that Marcello is a Sinti gypsy and Flavio is ethnically Italian. 
> 
> (Newtblythe and/or KeirMoonrock: I apologize in advance)

17 October, 1943

It’s very late right now, but I’m afraid I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking of yesterday, when Flavio and I snuck into the church. I had him so close to me—close enough that I could almost feel the warmth of his rosy cheeks. I can only imagine what it would have been to kiss him, to feel my lips touch his in youthful innocence.

He must think I’m innocent. 

I like it; the very idea of it sends shivers down my spine. 

I want to play it up and act like a naive, innocent boy—a good Catholic boy who hardly knows about sex, let alone how to do it; a boy who trips over his own words, which, I’ll admit, I find myself becoming when Flavio looks in my eyes, but one of these days, I want to break that image. I want to pin that boy up against the hayloft wall and watch a pleasant shock grow in his eyes as he realizes I am nothing like he thought. 

I want to bite into his shoulder and feel him wince, running his hand through my hair and trying not to cry out; I want to make the damn boy realize that he fucking crumbles at my touch. He likes to think he’s tough, and I know he thinks that between the two of us, I would want him to have an upper hand over me, to always be kept in a state of submission by him. In short, that I would sooner see _him_ pin _me_ against the wall.

God, he has no idea.

I want to touch him in all the right places, teasing him until he begs for mercy, the release of the tension, only for me to laugh in his face and run my hand closer to his erection, listening to him moan like a girl. 

I would continue like this a long time until he finally reaches down to touch himself, unable to bear my teasing any longer, at which point I would slam his arms back against the wall, holding him there by his wrist and using my other hand to press firmly between his legs.

I want to lean my head on his shoulder and feel his hot breath against my neck, running my hands madly along his body until his breathing grows sharp and staggered, and finally, I would let him go, holding him lovingly in my arms as he desperately tries to grind up against me. 

Here, I would stop acting so aggressive. I’ll have had my fill of torturing him, and so I would give him a minute to catch his breath.

I would look into his half-closed eyes, admiring the look of pure pleasure and anticipation in them, and I would kiss him—it would be like that night in the church but better, for in the privacy of the hayloft, I could kiss him as long as I want, hold himfirmly against my chest, and pull his long hair in one last tease before breaking away and cupping his face in my hands.

I would love, more than anything, to undress him, to see his pale, freckled skin revealed to me in the soft afternoon light of the barn. I’d toss his clothes in the corner, remove my own, and sit down, letting him rest comfortably in my lap, looking into my eyes.

I don’t know what we would do then. There’s got to be a way for two boys to do it, right? I’d like to stroke him until I finish him off, but that might be too plain and simple. 

In any case, I would like to see his orgasm before mine. I want to feel his muscles tense and hear him inhale sharply through his teeth before I even think of trying to pleasure myself; I want to to see his cheeks go all rosy—God, do I love how pink they get—but more than anything, I’d just like to give him an orgasm.

After that, I think I’ll have done enough—I would simply lay down on the wood and let him do whatever he would like with me. If he wants to get revenge and torture me like I tortured him, I would let him without complaint, trying not to cry out in pleasure. If he wants to do nothing but praise me and please me the best way he knows how, I’ll kiss him on the neck and tell him how great he is, moaning softly into his ear.

And once he’s finished me and we’re both laying in the hayloft with all our clothes off, with my hand in his hair, I want to hold him close to me and forget that we’d both get killed if the town found out Flavio Aiello fucked a gypsy or that Marcello Oliveri fucked a gadzo. 

It’s a wonderful idea, but unfortunately, all I have right now is my own hand. Not that I’m complaining, of course; it’s just that his would feel a lot better. But then again, now that I’ve got the image of him up against the wall in my head, I have a feeling that this is going to be good.

-Marcello Oliveri

**Author's Note:**

> *makes sign of the cross*
> 
> Dear word what have I done


End file.
